<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Winner Takes It All by disasterpoet</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29030871">The Winner Takes It All</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/disasterpoet/pseuds/disasterpoet'>disasterpoet</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare, Henry V - Shakespeare, The King (2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Prisoner of War, Prisoner/captor, Slightly non-con, So is Hal, This has been in my drafts for like a year, after avignon, but actually there's nothing explicit, cause i can't write smut, dauphin is sad boi, dauphin's perspective, gascoigne's a bitch, i like angst what can i say, i've accepted that i'm not gonna write anymore, is the king even relevant anymore?, prolly not, r patts deserves better than this, so here it is, some cheeky vomiting, the terrible french accent is back</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 12:55:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,720</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29030871</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/disasterpoet/pseuds/disasterpoet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>‘You’re quite pretty, for a man,’ he says. ‘Louis, was it?’ I nod and he removes his finger, though somehow I still can’t bring myself to break eye contact with him.</p>
<p>He smiles an empty smile that sends shivers down my spine. ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll enjoy England, Louis.’</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>The Dauphin/Henry V of England</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Winner Takes It All</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I lie on the ground, in the mud, and wait for death. I’m painfully aware that each shaky exhalation could be my last, that every moment could bring my end. All I can see through my visor is the sky. It’s a soft, hazy grey, and I decide there are worse things to look at as you die. This is peaceful. I can almost imagine that I’m not on a battlefield somewhere in Normandy, but on the lawn at Fontainebleau, watching the clouds drift by. Any second now my throat will be cut, or my bones battered to shreds, or my skull crushed inward. I don’t think I’m scared but maybe I’m just deluding myself. I know it won’t be painless, but it might be quick. If God will grant me one thing, may it be that. </p>
<p>Why is no one coming? Am I to be left here indefinitely, tortured with the prospect of my death for hours before it comes? I feel as if I should go mad, waiting for an end that will not arrive. </p>
<p>I can hear someone squelching towards me, through the mud, the soft sound of chainmail against fabric accompanying it. A face interrupts my view of the sky: the English king. He stares at me through my helmet before turning to his men.</p>
<p>‘Round up the remaining French soldiers! We’re taking them prisoner.’ He gestures downwards. ‘And bring him to my tent.’</p>
<p>Arms reach around me, pulling off my helmet and me to my feet. We’re not far from the English camp so it doesn’t take them long to frogmarch me off the battlefield and into the mass of tents. I don’t look back at the sea of fallen bodies, nor do I dare to glance at my shackled countrymen. I’ve failed all of them, as a prince and a leader, and yet they’ve not been granted the repentance of my death. I cannot repay them for their service except with my life, and that too seems not to be mine to give.</p>
<p>I’m taken to a small tent, not far from the king’s, where my armour is stripped from me until all that remains are the soft undergarments. Perhaps they’ll sell it—they could get a good price for such fine craftsmanship. I watch them pack it into a crate.</p>
<p>One of the king’s men approaches and looks me up and down. He looks about the same age as my father, though far more slender, and with long, straggly hair. He grabs my neck in his hand and pulls my head towards him.</p>
<p>‘Get your ‘ands off me, old man. ‘Ow dare you! I’m the heir to—’</p>
<p>‘You ain’t the heir ter nothing, no more,’ he says, laughing, ‘King Henry will see ter that.’ </p>
<p>He lets go of me and turns to the other men in the tent as I cough. ‘Hurry up. The king doesn’t want ter be kept waiting.’</p>
<p>I’m pulled to my feet again as manacles are attached to my wrists. It finally hits me that I’m indeed a prisoner, at the mercy of the English no less. My freedom and my dignity are dead. </p>
<p>We leave the tent and walk across the sodden grass towards the king’s quarters. Mud oozes between my toes, bare-feet doing nothing to keep out the chill of the morning dew. I trip, but am hauled back to my feet before I get close to the ground. The men laugh and say something I don’t quite catch, though I can imagine it’s nothing complimentary. Keeping my head down, I let my hair block my face so they don’t see me blush in shame. </p>
<p>‘We’re here,’ barks one of my new companions. ‘In you go.’ I’m pushed through a tent flap and come face to face with the English king, who’s sat towards the rear of the makeshift room. </p>
<p>‘Ah, enfin, le prince français. Bienvenue. Asseyez-vous, s’il vous plaît.’ His voice is imposing and unfriendly, and even if it weren’t I’m not in a position to refuse him. In the absence of a chair I kneel on the floor, trying not to make eye contact with any of his advisors. The old man from before is here too, sitting to the right of the king.</p>
<p>‘So, Monsieur Dauphin, you find yourself in quite the predicament. You have lost the battle, and your father is in no position to win the war either. I have spared your life, but you understand the situation, I’m sure. I don’t intend to let you go so easily.’ </p>
<p>He stands and walks towards me, before crouching down to my level. Placing a single finger under my chin, he tilts my face upwards and inspects me with a cold gaze. His eyes seem to bore into my soul as he stares, the intensity never wavering. </p>
<p>‘You’re quite pretty, for a man,’ he says. ‘Louis, was it?’ I nod and he removes his finger, though somehow I still can’t bring myself to break eye contact with him.</p>
<p>He smiles an empty smile that sends shivers down my spine. ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll enjoy England, Louis.’ </p>
<p>He rises, done with me, and turns to the old man. ‘Oh, and one more thing whilst we’re all here. I’ve changed my mind about the French prisoners: kill them all.’</p>
<p>~~~</p>
<p>The sea is rough on the way to England. I feel bile rise and fall in my stomach, then my throat. The cabin I’m contained in is small, but I stagger to the corner furthest away to heave. Very little comes up. I lost what I had inside me hours ago, the first time the ship hit a wave. I’ve never sailed on open water before, only down the rivers and canals of my homeland. It turns out I’m not a natural at it. </p>
<p>I move back to my dry corner, praying that the vomit doesn’t run along the floor in my direction. They gave me a change of clothes on the journey to the coast—simple but comfortable garments—though I have no idea when, or if, I’ll get any more. </p>
<p>My head pounds; I still feel sick. I draw my cloak tight around my body and press my face against the cabin wall. How big is the Channel? Surely it can’t be much longer. I groan, just to see if it’ll make me feel better. It doesn’t. </p>
<p>I try to avoid thinking about the battle, but I can’t escape it. My mind slips round to it eventually, replaying the events over and over. I was overconfident. I was overconfident and I underestimated him. I should’ve consulted my advisors more, I shouldn’t have sent my cavalry so quickly. There are an infinite number of things I should or shouldn’t have done that could’ve spared the lives of so many soldiers. All my men are dead. Every single one dead, and all because of me. Widows will be cursing my name, glad that the English are carting me off to some foreign land for the rest of my sorry excuse for an existence. </p>
<p>I wonder what my father thinks? I’m sure he knows by now. I thought the English king would have gone to him himself, whether to claim the throne, wage another war, or to use me as a bargaining chip, but instead of travelling towards Paris he went straight back to Calais. It seems to me as if he has gained little by his expedition, except a bit of bloodshed.</p>
<p>I don’t bother thinking of what awaits me because I do not know. I’ve never been to England before, nor do I know any Englishmen besides the odd travelling scholar or priest who made their way to court. I could be treated as a noble prisoner and live in confined luxury, or I could be locked in a dark dungeon somewhere and forgotten about. I suppose it depends on how hospitable he’s feeling. </p>
<p>I hear the clank of a key turning in a lock and crack open my eyes. The old, long-haired man is standing there, expressionless. </p>
<p>‘We’re expecting ter dock in about half an hour,’ he says. ‘The king’s ordered you ter be ready ter join the progress. There’ll be a horse waiting for you.’</p>
<p>‘Thank you, Monsieur,’ I say to be polite.</p>
<p>‘Did I say you could talk?’ He scowls at me through the gloom of the cabin. ‘And that’s ‘Sir’ ter you, French scum.’</p>
<p>Enchanteur. </p>
<p>~~~</p>
<p>The city of London reminds me a lot of Paris. It is busy, dirty and full of commoners in much the same way. Filth splashes up at you as you traverse the streets, though at least people move out of the way for the king’s entourage. They take me to the tower, a great castle within the city walls that overlooks the river. It’s beautiful—the white stone glints in the afternoon sun—but intimidatingly looms over all of its surroundings. It reminds me of its master. </p>
<p>To my relief, I’m not thrown in a dungeon or sent to the torturers, but shown to a small, richly furnished room, where a change of clothes awaits me. They’re not quite as nice as I’m used to, but far better than my peasant’s attire and more fitted to my station as Dauphin. Or I suppose ex-Dauphin. There are tapestries and a rug to keep out the cold, and a fireplace where the logs are already crackling. I have a writing desk, complete with quill and ink, and a large, comfortable looking bed. There’s even a servant boy, who informs me he is to cater to my every need. </p>
<p>The door isn’t locked, but I feel hesitant about straying beyond the walls of my room. I do not know the English king, or why he has spared me, and I wouldn’t like to upset him by taking unnecessary liberties. It turns out I don’t have to wait long before the man himself pushes open the door and enters.</p>
<p>‘Bonsoir, Louis. Vous aimez votre chambre?’</p>
<p>‘Oui, merci.’ He’s shorter than me, but he seems to fill the room, encroaching on the corners of my space. I regret dismissing the servant boy because I’m very aware that we’re alone, and that he wields immense power over my life. </p>
<p>‘I’d like you to consider yourself my guest, as well as my prisoner. Feel free to make use of the gardens here and to dine with me, if you wish.’</p>
<p>‘You are most kind.’ </p>
<p>‘I have something for you.’ He throws me a small wooden ball. I catch it and look from it to him. </p>
<p>‘Why ‘ave you given me this child’s toy?’ </p>
<p>‘Don’t you recognise it,’ he says, frowning. ‘You’re the one who sent it to me.’</p>
<p>‘Sent it to you? When? I ‘ave sent you nothing.’</p>
<p>‘Upon my accession to the throne, you sent me this as a gift. I presumed it was some sort of joke.’</p>
<p>‘Like I said, I sent you nothing. My father sent a magnifique gold plate from my family to you. I was not involved in any of the gift-giving.’</p>
<p>‘And I suppose you don’t know anything about the assassin then, either.’ He raises his voice, making me jump, his face turning red as he glares at me. </p>
<p>‘An assassin? What assassin would this be, your majesty?’</p>
<p>‘You mock me! You take me for a fool!’</p>
<p>‘Non, I am simply confused. This is the first I ‘ave ‘eard of any assassin.’</p>
<p>He walks to me from the door and places a hand on my shoulder. His fingers tense in their grip. ‘You swear you aren’t lying to me. Do you swear it?’</p>
<p>‘I ‘ave nothing to gain from lying to you. I would not bother with such deception.’</p>
<p>He removes his hand and looks to the floor, cursing under his breath. ‘Then I won’t bother you for any longer. You can keep the ball.’</p>
<p>Two days later I hear about how King Henry murdered his closest advisor in cold blood. I don’t particularly care, sometimes politics is violent, but I do get the satisfaction of knowing that the old man won’t be bothering me again. </p>
<p>~~~</p>
<p>I watch the English king pace round the garden from my window. He does this most days and I make it a habit not to be outside with him when he does. Truthfully, he scares me a bit. I think it’s his eyes, they’re too intense. He tends to look through me rather than at me, as if I’m a thin pane of glass in his line of vision. And I still don’t know what he thinks of me. Does he respect me, or is he just laughing at me every time he thinks of me?</p>
<p>Maybe he doesn’t think of me at all. I could be no more than a minor inconvenience to him, an extra body to feed and house. </p>
<p>I avoid seeking him out like the plague, but sometimes he’ll come to my room uninvited. Only at night, after the sun has crept away from the sky, but still he comes. He stands most of the time, as if ready to make a quick escape, but sometimes he’ll sit at the writing desk and stretch out his legs. He does this if he’s in a good mood, I’ve worked out, so I wait until these times to ask questions he otherwise wouldn’t answer. </p>
<p>‘Why did you not go to my father,’ I ask one evening. ‘You defeated me, you could’ve taken my country. Why didn’t you?’</p>
<p>‘You’re a valuable prisoner’ he replies, ‘and I didn’t want to risk you being rescued. I thought it was best to return to England immediately.’</p>
<p>‘But you could ‘ave killed me and taken France anyway. Why bother?’</p>
<p>He looks at me, his skin mottled by the firelight. ‘King Charles sent me a letter after the battle. It reached me at Calais. In it he promised the hand of your youngest sister and the French throne after his death, so long as you were returned unharmed.’</p>
<p>‘And yet you still sailed. Catherine is not ugly, if that’s what you’re worried about.’</p>
<p>He smiles. ‘No, she’s not, her beauty is famed across the continent.’</p>
<p>‘Then why?’</p>
<p>‘I am not so keen to let you go, mon ami. I have no need for a marriage when the heir to the French throne is alive and in my household. Your father is old and sick and your brother is but a child. You, and by extension I, will inherit. Besides, it seemed a shame to give up such a pretty view.’</p>
<p>He stands, signalling that the conversation is over, but a sudden burst of confidence means the words are out of my mouth before I can think about them.</p>
<p>‘And what if, when I’m king, I don't fancy following your orders anymore?’</p>
<p>He stares at me and raises an eyebrow, bemused. ‘Do not presume that you’ll have a choice. There are a multitude of ways I can bind you to me, whether it be royal proclamation, a decree signed by your father, or just ramming you into a mattress until you’ll agree to anything I say.’<br/>
I feel the heat of embarrassment climb the back of my neck, but that’s not all. There’s anger too, a fiery rage at my defeat and humiliation that seems never ending. ’Is that why you spared me, then? So I could be your common whore?’</p>
<p>‘I must admit it crossed my mind, but no, there are plenty of men and women willing to provide that service; I don’t expect it from you. Unless, of course, you leave me with no other option.’</p>
<p>‘Then, why? Why would you deny me the dignity of a soldier’s death to keep me locked away in your castle?’</p>
<p>“Because it’s more fun this way. It’s boring if I don’t have a new toy to play with every now and again. Aren’t I allowed to keep a war trophy? Usually it would be your head, but I think I prefer you with a body attached.’</p>
<p>‘Connard…merde!’</p>
<p>‘No need for that. You might come to like England, you never know. With time perhaps you might become an English rose, wouldn’t that be interesting. You could give some nice noble the perfect wife.’</p>
<p>He laughs. It’s a cruel, humourless laugh. ‘Perhaps one day I’ll make you my queen.’</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i haven't thought about the king (2019) for a while (and i'm assuming no one else has either) but then i found this and thought i may as well curse the world with this too</p>
<p>i rest easy in the knowledge that nothing i write will ever be as bad as the 'make it flesh' speech delivered by timmy c</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>